Shard of Glass
by Aratea
Summary: She chose to stay, his living bride. Erik spirits Christine away to another palace beneath the streets of Paris to a life neither of them could have imagined, but can an angel really love a corpse, a ghost? T for now, but will likely go up later.
1. Chapter 1: Living Bride

Hi all. This is my first try at this, so I'd love some creative feedback. These characters, of course, don't belong to me.

Chapter 1

His living bride.

He still couldn't believe she had said it, rejecting his offer, in the end, to let her go.

"_I will marry you, Erik," she had said, even after he had kissed her and set her free._

_He sighed at her stubbornness. "You love him," he said. "Go be with him. You owe me nothing."_

"_No, I want to stay with you. I see now how much my love is worth to you, and I would never mean that much to him, though he loves me."_

"_Christine, don't throw your life away. With me, your days will be lived out in darkness," he said, his conscience straining against everything else in him that wanted her._

"_Light them up for me," she had invited, smiling gently and taking his cold hand._

The carriage stopped in front of Saint-Sulpice. This was the church of the poor, the anonymous. Its ugly, mismatched towers and seedy surroundings driving away anyone interested in appearances. Erik felt confident in his choice as they left the dark carriage—the few people walking the nearby streets were as eager to be unnoticed as he was.

Climbing the church steps they past a cluster of gypsies gathering on the massive church's portico against the chill of the night. A young woman with a whimpering bundle cradled in one arm stepped in front of Christine with an eager outstretched palm.

Erik stepped in front of her protectively, but she gently pulled him back. Searching in vain through her purse for a coin, she finally closed the little bag and pulled off her gloves, handing them to the girl, who took them without a word, pulling the warm gloves onto her chapped hands.

_Kind_, he thought, wordlessly guiding her up the rest of the steps. She was always kind. But he drove away the thought as it convicted his conscience even more. It didn't even bear mentioning that he didn't deserve her, but she chose this. She chose him.

"_You swear to me that this is what you want—" he had asked her anxiously, "you want to marry me, and stay with me, even though I told you you were free to leave and marry the boy? I swear I won't hurt either of you, or anyone else, no matter what you choose. I want to know what you truly want."_

"_I truly want to marry you," she said, raising her fingers to his naked face, "Raoul doesn't need me—he could find happiness with nearly anyone else. You, however, have no one else."_

"_And so you simply pity me," he added grimly, pulling away from her touch, "and you stay with me out of some sense of Christian charity, or some other ridiculous compunction."_

"_No! You know that's not true, and you mock me by saying it. I care deeply for you, as I've told you—_shown _you—before. Why are you trying to push me away?"_

_Why was he trying to convince her to leave him? She had just granted his wildest wish, and yet he had resisted her._

"_Because I love you too well," he decided finally, "to keep you trapped in darkness with me…"_

"May I have a moment, Erik?" she asked quietly, interrupting his thoughts. He hesitantly released her, regarding her watchfully as she dipped her fingers into one of the huge bivalve shells that served Saint-Sulpice as holy water fonts, the gift of some king long ago. She crossed herself, and moved quietly into one of the darkened side chapels and knelt, her face illuminated by the flickering light a few smoky candles left at the shrine.

He stood uncomfortably, waiting in the shadow of one of the massive columns that supported the hulking vaulted ceiling. He always felt awkward in churches—they were for the living, the penitent, and he was already dead and already damned.

Or at least he would be damned in a moment, he thought, as he watched Christine pray. His joy at the prospect of marrying her momentarily was only rivaled by his guilt—could a demon ever make this reverent angel happy?

_She chose me_, he reminded himself again, pushing those thoughts away. She lingered still, so he chose a chapel of his own. This one held a small statue of an older man with a bunch of lilies cradled in one arm, and a child in the other, standing on a plinth over an altar. St. Joseph—guardian of virgins.

The coincidence prickled his conscience yet again.

_I'll take care of her_, he insisted in his mind, to no one in particular. _She will never want for anything, as long as I live._ The saint continued his benign gaze down at him.

"I'm ready, Erik," came a soft voice behind him. He turned, struck for the thousandth time by her beauty. Dark curls, a small form, and a soft, graceful way about her left him drunk if he admired her too long. He shouldn't be doing this...

"You're sure?" he asked again, softly, sadly.

"Of course," she said, taking his hand gently, leading him toward the transept. "Don't be afraid, Erik."

A few moments later a young gypsy woman watched as the strange couple left the church, hand in hand. She didn't usually pay the gorgios any mind-they sometimes threw coins, sometimes stones, and she often couldn't tell the difference. But this lady was different. The girl had never own anything as fine as this lady's soft embroidered kid gloves, and she had never been shown such artless regard in her young life.

As the kind lady and the dark gentlemen returned to their carriage in front of the church and left, the simple girl hoped that they had good food and somewhere warm to stay that night-the grandest wish she knew to make for their happiness.


	2. Chapter 2: Shattered

Author's Note: Thanks for sticking with me! Let me know what you think!

Chapter 2

The carriage stopped at the front of a run-down, non-descript house in an ancient neighborhood on the far bank of the river from the opera house.

"Welcome home, madame," Erik said quietly as he helped her down from the carriage in front of the door.

"This is home now?" she wondered, taking in the row of shabby old houses.

"Yes," he said slowly, "but perhaps you'll want to reserve judgment until I show you the inside."

Inside was no better, Christine decided, as they passed through the interior of the house. Its age showed spectacularly in its peeling plaster and dark appointments. There was so little furniture and so many dusty cobwebs that it looked abandoned, and certainly uninhabitable. But her confusion seemed to amuse Erik.

"Wait a moment yet, my dear," he instructed, a half smile lurking at the edge of his mask. He moved to a particularly crumbled patch of wall in the innermost room. The plaster here appeared to have eroded in chunks, leaving several deep cavities in the wall the size of a fisted hand.

"I bought this house years ago before the opera had been built from a man who was too old to continue to care for it," he said, running his hands over the pitted plaster as if looking for something. "He didn't know what lay just beneath it," he said, finding a handhold in the crumbling plaster and pulling. At his touch a whole section of the wall slid forward and to the side, revealing a small, low-ceilinged spiral of steps leading downward. _Master of trap doors indeed_, she thought.

As they descended, led by the light of a small lamp, the cramped, curving staircase gave way to a huge gallery, with vaulted ceilings descending periodically to meet with six rows of columns, spaced every three meters or so.

He lit two small basins of oil ensconced in the walls, flooding the room with a dancing light.

"Erik," she breathed in wonder. "How did you know this was down here?"

"I wasn't sure it was, at first," he replied, pleased at her astonishment. "This is an old neighborhood, and I had explored adjacent tunnels before. Paris, as you know, has labyrinths of sewers and catacombs underground. Most of them connect to each other, but this room had been sealed off for centuries before I found it."

"How old do you think it is?" she asked, running her fingers over the worn surface of a nearby column.

"This room is medieval-perhaps built as a storeroom as much as four hundred years ago. The rest of this place is more or less the same age, though the foundations and a few of the walls are probably Roman."

"There's more, you mean?"

"Of course, my dear. I won't have you sleeping in this drafty gallery."

As he said it, she felt the air move around her with some surprise. She had expected it to be as still as a tomb down here.

"We aren't far from an underground tributary of the Seine," he spoke, answering her unspoken question. "The moving water keeps the air circulated and fresh. That, and when I discovered this place I opened a passage to a nearby tunnel that connects to passages all over the city, some of them leading to the surface. I find the result to be a fairly pleasant atmosphere-not quite the dank crypt you may have expected."

He spoke with obvious pride that made her smile. "You are quite a man, Erik."

Silently, he gazed back at her with a sudden tenderness that made her heart ache. "You're the only one that's ever seen me as a man, Christine," he said slowly, almost timidly reaching for her hand.

She gave it to him, allowing herself to be drawn toward him in a gentle embrace. "You won't be alone anymore, Erik," she said firmly. "I'll stay with you, and we'll make lovely music and be happy together. Don't be melancholy."

"How can I be, when you're here?" he asked softly, his face half buried in her dark curls. His fingers passed hesitantly through their silky strands, barely daring such an intimate touch. "I only wish I deserved you…"

Shy in his attentions and seeking to arrest his dark vein of thought, she suddenly bounded from his arms, playfully glancing back at him as she grasped a nearby column and turned in a graceful arc around it.

"Little sprite," he smiled softly at her, enjoying the beautiful shadows her lithe form created in the firelight.

"Show me the rest of it, please," she commanded playfully, her voice reverberating happily off the ancient vaults.

"This way, my darling," he bowed, offering her his arm.

They entered a narrow passage that led to another huge gallery, though this one had been sectioned off into several large rooms. Erik lit several more oil lamps, and she could see that this part of the house had been furnished very comfortably, with carpets and bright sconces leading them welcomingly down the center hall of the gallery, at the end of which a large hanging candelabra gleamed magnificently.

"It's beautiful, Erik," she breathed wonderingly.

"I'm glad you are pleased," he replied, smiling softly. "It belongs to you now."

"To us," she corrected after a moment, taking his hand. His eyes turned suddenly sad as he bent to kiss her small fingers.

"What's wrong?" she asked, concerned. The sad look was immediately concealed beneath the opaque veil of control she had seen so often. When he spoke, she wasn't sure he was answering truthfully.

"I was just thinking how hungry and tired you must be, my love. What a thoughtless husband I am to be giving you a tour while you haven't had a proper meal in ages! I'll show you one last room, and then I'll leave you to rest a moment while I find you some supper."

He led her hesitantly down the hall and into a room whose walls were nearly covered with rich Persian brocades, whose sumptuous patterns contrasted strikingly with the stark curves of the Gothic vaults above. On top of these, several mirrors were skillfully hung around the room, reflecting the lamplight and casting glimmers all along the walls. A large armoire seemed near full to bursting with more rich fabrics-new dresses for her, she guessed. A small charcoal brazier in one corner wafted a thin column of sweet-smelling smoke upward and into the center of the room, a low, plush bed stood invitingly.

Christine blushed violently. The bed was seductively dressed with even more brocades, supplemented with gleaming silks, and the softest furs, and the whole thing was studded with a dozen huge down pillows artfully arranged.

"This is beautiful," she gasped again, reaching down to stroke a particularly velvety-looking expanse of fur.

"I'm pleased you find it so," he said quietly. He opened a thick curtain at the back of the room to reveal another narrow, rough-hewn passage lit by a dim, shimmering reflected light. "Come and see," he invited.

At the end of the passage, around a corner, a small, warm room opened. The stone walls had once been decorated by ornately carved masonry that was barely visible now. Towards the back of the room, the floor sloped downward, forming a small, shallow pool.

A stream of water flowed into it from a crumbling stone lion's head about a meter above the surface of the pool, which was another meter deep. Hot coals glowed cheerfully behind a modern grate just below the lion's head, heating the water as it poured out. Beside the pool another armoire was just opened to reveal towels and plush Turkish robes.

Another, smaller carving of a dolphin poured water into a stone basin nearby at just the right height to wash one's face and hands. Lamps hung all around the room, reflecting beautifully off of the surface of the water.

"Did you make all of this?" she asked wonderingly.

"Much of this was here when I opened the passage," he replied. "My guess is that this used to be part of a thermal bath, probably first used by the Romans. The water that comes out is warm naturally, but I added the furnace to warm it further as it flows out.

"I imagine," he continued, "that you'd like to wash, or perhaps take a bath before dinner. Everything here belongs to you-towels and a clean robe are there," he motioned toward the armoire, "and you'll find clean clothes in the wardrobe in the bedroom. Is an hour sufficient time?"

"Yes, of course," she said, still awed by the beautiful baths.

"Then I'll leave you for now," he said softly, excusing himself.

She bashfully waited several moments after he had left before disrobing and slipping into the pool. It was warm and incredibly soothing, with a faint mineral smell and feel to the water.

Lifting her feet from the smooth stone floor, she floated easily onto her back, luxuriating in the feeling of weightlessness. Nearby, she noticed a latched wooden box, just within reach of the pool. When she opened the box, a dozen alluring scents rose from its contents-rose, orange, clove, mint, and myrrh.

She hesitated for a moment before the gleaming vials of oils and rich soaps, staring at the beautiful glass bottles, her good breeding restraining her from immediately diving into the delicious-smelling contents.

_Well, who else is here to use all of this_? she finally thought, laughing at herself. Immediately her conclusion was confirmed by the discovery of an old friend-a mint-infused oil popular among the dancers and performers of the opera. It was best for soothing legs and feet made sore by dancing and hours-long rehearsals in heavy costumes and unforgiving shoes.

When Erik had first "invited" her to his home by the underground lake, she had asked him for some, and he had brought it to her in this very bottle, though now it was filled with fresh oil, the crushed mint leaves swirling within it still bright green and pungent.

She smiled at his consideration. _He can't be such an inhuman monster, while also being so kind to me_, she thought. As if to argue with her, her mind brought back memories of the terrors she had seen or experienced at his hands-blackmail, kidnapping, extortion, and possibly, though no firm proof was to hand, murder.

_I made this choice to protect others as well as for the sake of my own regard for him_, she thought grimly, pushing away the unpleasant recollections. She had seen how her influence seemed calming and civilizing to him; he always acted rationally around her, and with the glaring exception of kidnapping her, treating her in a gentlemanly way. _Perhaps my love can convince him that he truly _is _a member of the human race._

Several minutes later she emerged, the white planes and curves of her skin gleaming from the water and oil. On the far wall, another large mirror hung, reflecting the sight of her bare skin back to her, and she turned, examining herself critically.

She sighed at the dark circles under her eyes, and the pale, bloodless cast her complexion had taken over the past few weeks, though she found some cause for optimism in the suppleness of her skin and the evenness of her proportions.

She tried not to wonder what Erik would think of the sight of her, the thought making her want to sink back into the pool, covering herself completely in the dark water and never coming out again. _Every woman has done this from the beginning of time,_ her practical side chided her. _You yourself are the product of a thousand women baring themselves thus to their husbands, some of them surely much plainer than you_; _you needn't put up a fuss over the way of all the earth_.

The butterflies she felt in her stomach proved immune to reason, however, and persisted as she wrapped herself up, dressed her hair simply, left the now-fragrant bathroom, and emerged into the bedroom. She tried to avoid looking at the large, luxuriant bed beside her as she distractedly sifted through the contents of the armoire.

As many of the accoutrements were still in boxes, she had guessed he had sent a dressmaker her measurements, and had simply accepted the delivery of whatever had been produced. However, many of the pieces seemed selected with her in mind-dramatic blue and green silk evening dresses that would set off her striking eyes and dark hair beside day dresses of the palest pink and porcelain that would match her fair, translucent skin.

She sighed. At least the underthings had clearly been chosen by a woman. The bravest warrior would have paled at the sight of as many yards of lace and ribbon as Christine found crammed in a small trunk at the bottom of the wardrobe.

Upon perusing her options, she was content with what she saw-nothing so demure as to seem girlish or maidenly, but nothing too daring to consider wearing. She finally settled on a matching chemise and pantalettes trimmed in blue ribbon that she hoped didn't seem too bold, or perhaps worse-too virginal.

She also chose a burgundy damask dress that, though not as striking as some of the other dresses in the wardrobe, appealingly displayed her smooth white neck and collarbones. To this she attempted to add modest necklace of what appeared to be garnets that she had found in a small chest of similar articles, but the clasp mechanism fought her.

"Allow me," came a voice behind her, close enough that she could feel a warm puff of breath diffuse stirringly on her bare shoulder.

As he worked out the clasp, his fingers barely brushed the soft skin of her neck. He didn't fail to notice her soft shiver at his touch.

He couldn't prevent his body from responding to her movement, but he violently dashed the immediate craving he had to touch her again, just to see what she would do.

"How long have you been there?" she asked nervously.

"Only a moment," he said quickly. He allowed his eyes to wander over her form.

"You look so beautiful, Christine," he breathed honestly.

She blushed, her porcelain skin matching the garnet of her necklace and dress for a brief instant.

The effect was ravishing. Erik crushed yet another desire to…

_No_.

He didn't even allow himself enough time to decide what it was he wanted to do. He rather quickly led her from the rich enticements of the bedroom back to the open gallery, where he had spread a simple supper of bread, cheese, and fruit. He had also procured a fair supply of a dark, lush wine that he knew to be strong and good-he thought its effects might be welcome to them both in the hours to come.

Dinner passed quietly, both of them suffering from nerves. They ate slowly, the expectations of their wedding night hanging almost palpably in the air, and neither of them very bold in the face of _that_ new frontier.

Finally, long after they had both finished, Erik was the first to broach the subject of how they would spend the rest of their evening.

"Are you very tired, Christine?" he asked, but he nervously rushed on. "I'm sure you must be. I'm sure you're dead on your feet."

"Just a little tired, actually," she returned shyly, toying with a fold of her dress.

"Well, allow me to show you back to the bedroom, in any case."

She rose, grasping his proffered arm. He led her slowly back to the rich chamber, with its dancing oil lights, which seemed now to cast an intimidatingly sensuous light.

"Erik," she began shyly, moving toward the stuffed armoire.

"Yes, my darling?"

"Could you turn your back to me for a moment, please?"

"Oh, you needn't…" he began, but the words caught in his throat. "No, I'll step out for a moment. Call for me whenever you want me to return."

"Erik," she said again softly. As if her gentle voice hadn't already arrested him mid-step, she caught his sleeve with her hand as he turned. "You don't need to leave. I'm your wife now. I'm only a little nervous, that's all. Please stay."

He reluctantly remained, obediently turning his back to her. Her beautiful smile had struck him as all the more lovely for its shyness. The sounds of fabric brushing bare skin behind filled him with an ache down to the marrow of his bones. Oh, that it were _his fingers_ brushing her naked skin!

After what felt like an eternity, he felt her little fingers grasp his hand, and he couldn't help but turn and look at her.

He gasped involuntarily at the sight of her-a vision of white silk and lace in her alarmingly sheer peignoir. As he watched, she pulled first the ribbon, and then the pins out of her hair, letting it fall over her shoulder in a silky, fragrant cascade. His breath quickened.

He couldn't stop his hand as it rose, touching her blooming cheek with the backs of his fingers, then running them softly down her neck, brushing her bare collarbone as she held perfectly still. The only sound was her long, whispered exhale as he touched her.

His hand dropped, catching hold of her hand again as he led her to the bed. She lay down as he knelt beside her, slowly kissing first her palm, then her wrist, his attentions rewarded with a shivering sigh from her rosy lips.

"I can't imagine anything more lovely than you lying here, my love," he breathed softly, raining more kisses along the tender translucence of the inside of her arm. His eyes didn't meet hers, but she thought she saw a strange glimmer in them, like a tear about to fall.

But he gently stood, and snuffed out all of the lamps hung around the room, leaving it in a warm darkness disturbed only by the glow of the last dying ember in the fragrant brazier. She felt him settle onto the bed beside her, and take her hand once more.

"I love you so," she thought she may have heard him whisper, but the sound seemed incongruously sad, and she dismissed it as a figment of her now-fevered imagination. In the darkness, she heard his angelic voice sigh the softest, sweetest melody as he kissed her arm again, and she couldn't imagine heaven being any sweeter than this…

He continued his lullaby until he heard his beloved's breath grow slow and deep, and once he made sure she was warmly tucked into the soft furs and silks, he very carefully arose from the bed.

But she stirred at his movement, and he heard a groggy sound of disapproval as he released her hand.

"You aren't staying?" came her confused, drowsy protest. He sighed softly.

"No, my sweet love. You're so sleepy, and we've both had too much wine. I couldn't…" His beautiful voice drifted off for a moment into anguished silence, but he soon plied it again in the same achingly gentle lullaby. She muttered a few, sleepy objections, but quickly succumbed to the sweet, sad darkness of his song.

He left as soon as he was sure she was truly, deeply asleep.

Tears streamed down his face before he had even left sight of that dark, delicious room with all of its sweet promise of heaven. He fled across the ancient flagstones to a room far from the one in which Christine lay, now shielded from his brutally aching want.

He had created this room long ago for a very special purpose-to serve as his own personal torture chamber, a place of penance for everything he was. From the floor to the ceiling hung scores of mirrors at every height and angle, and the floor was covered in razor shards of even more mirrors that he had smashed years ago. He had replaced each mirror he had ever destroyed in his mad raging, not letting even a single one of his horrible reflections die in slivers on the ground.

No mercy for a monster.

Now, he lit the single lamp by the door, removed his shoes, choking back his sobs as he savagely forced himself to tread the razor-strewn ground into the middle of the ruthless room.

"Wretch!" he hissed aloud, rounding on his own masked reflections, his voice quivering with anguished rage. "You thought you could ever be her husband-her _lover_? Never forget that it is with _these cold, dead hands_ you wish to caress her!"

With his clawed fingers and a strangled cry, he tore off the mask, viciously raking both the leather and tender skin underneath, and throwing it to the ground. Dark blood welled up in gruesome stripes on his already monstrous naked face, oozing as thick and dark as if it had come from a fresh cadaver, blood already congealing in its still veins.

In the mirrors, he watched it silently, mercilessly seep down his mangled skin, confirming all he had ever understood about his own hideousness.

"It is with this _corpse_," he cried, sinking to his knees onto the sharp shards, sobbing brutally in his grief, "you would make love to her…"

He collapsed to the floor, his growing pain strangely granting him control and soothing his sobs.

"_Monster_," he breathed at length, his shaking finally stilled. His blood dripped onto the shards twinkling evilly beneath him.

With a deep sigh of ancient pain, he stood, his resolution cemented by the legions of horrors created by the mirrors surrounding him. They were the only trustworthy counsellors he had ever known, lifeless and cold as they were-they always, faithfully, unflinchingly reminded him of exactly what he was.

"I will never touch her," came his whispered promise, and he turned, leaving his blood and tears on the glittering floor.


	3. Chapter 3: Monster

A/N:Thanks for the great feedback, guys! It's really been encouraging to me. I hope you like this chapter (and sorry it's so short. Erik does NOT want to prolong this conversation) and don't worry-they'll get their act together eventually. ;) 

Ch 3: Monster 

She awoke alone, for a moment forgetting where she was.

Her eyes finally focusing in the quiet lamplight, all of last night flooded back into her mind. She wasn't sure whether to brush off the sting of rejection pushing up against her thoughts. _Maybe he was just being chivalrous_, she thought, unsure if optimism was warranted.

She noticed a tray with cream and strawberries resting on the washstand, and some toasted bread warming on the brazier. She smiled, remembering how she had once told him she was fond of strawberries on toast with cream. She prepared a piece, mulling over the night's events as she ate. She wanted to talk to Erik.

Dressing quickly, she left the room and began wandering cautiously through the twilit galleries of the strange, underground house. A far-off sound of music echoed eerily off the stone walls, impelling her forward to find the source of the melody—undoubtedly her brilliant husband.

As she wended through unfamiliar stone passages, following the music, she passed several darkened rooms—a parlor of some kind, a library, a workshop or laboratory, and a very dark room into which she could see nothing but a few sharp-looking glints as if from broken glass.

She shivered, remembering.

_"Careful where you wander, Christine," he once told her, when he had first brought her down to the house by the lake. "While my home is yours now too, it does not yet recognize you as its mistress. I couldn't bear to see you maimed—or worse—in an accident…"_

She had seen first-hand the cunning, violent traps he had laid for trespassing enemies, and the knowledge reminded her of the dangerous risk she took in wandering alone through another house of Erik's design. The dark, evil-looking room winked at her as she walked past it quickly.

The room the music was coming from was almost as dark as the last one. She entered it silently, and as her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she saw him—he was hunched over an organ console with four manuals, his fingers and feet churning out the expansive, but sweet sound that now surrounded her. Ranks of lead and wooden pipes arranged in graceful scales lined the dim walls, casting barred shadows along the ceiling.

The music he played was sadly sweet and mellow, relatively soft for the capable pipes that surrounded her, but not so soft as to betray the sound of her light steps as she approached the raised stand of the organ console.

She reached out, brushing his neck with her warm fingers. His shoulders immediately tensed in surprise, his fingers freezing on a dissonant chord for just a moment too long before easing back into resolution. The pipes then stilled.

"Good morning, my love," he said quietly, resetting all the stops on the console. "How did you sleep?"

"I slept well, Erik," she returned, "And you?"

He smiled joylessly. "I slept as well as I usually do."

"Alone," she prodded.

He said nothing, quickly pulling several stops, and beginning a much more ardent fugue.

Undismayed, she reached up once again, slowly, lightly brushing his neck from the tender, pulsing skin behind his ears, down to his protruding collarbones.

She could see him fiercely trying to ignore her, to retreat back into his music, but she could also feel his pulse quickening under her fingers, and his skin, which was usually like ice, was now feverish and flushed. His music, which had started as a vehemently complex piece, had devolved into two simple melodies warring with each other, which he desperately clung to with all the focus he could muster.

She bent her head beside his ear, letting her breath flow down his neck. "Why did you sleep alone?" she whispered softly into his ear. "Do I not please you?"

His focus broke with a great, shuddering sigh.

"Not please me?" he repeated in an anguished tone. "Silly girl, can't you see what you _do_ to me when you touch me? You have me completely at your mercy and you wonder if you please me? That's exactly the problem—you, in all your sweet innocence, drive me wild with want for you!"

"Then why is it a problem?" she asked, her voice rising petulantly to match his, "Why do you spurn me? I'm not the most beautiful woman in the world, but if you'd give me a chance I think I could learn to make you happy!"

He stopped, suddenly aware that he had hurt her feelings. He gathered her to him, stroking her hair and making soft, soothing sounds, and she alarmingly burst into tears against his shoulder.

"Dear, sweet love," he cooed gently, "you don't understand what I'm saying. You please me far, far _too_ much. You _are_ the most beautiful woman in the world to me—you're an _angel_. And that's a problem because…" he hesitated, knowing that his next words could close his only door to heaven forever.

"Because I'm a monster…" he decided finally, allowing his conscience to protect her from his scorching want.

Neither spoke for several moments. He felt her eyes searching his masked face, but he couldn't raise his own off the floor to meet them.

"I know who you are," she said softly, at length, "and I don't care."

He felt her words ring within him—he was expecting her to contradict him, to ignore his hideous face and his analogously hideous crimes. He had kidnapped her, threatened her and the man she had loved. And there were many things he had done long ago that she didn't even know about. He _was_ a monster. No one who knew him could truthfully deny it. But he was surprised when she hadn't even tried.

"You don't care that I'm a monster," he repeated sardonically, separating each word as if to show her how ridiculous they were.

"No," she said boldly, straightening unapologetically. "I think you act that way sometimes because that's how people have always treated you, but I will treat you like a human being and a gentleman, and I expect you to act accordingly."

He smiled internally. Her plucky courage reminded him of a fluffed-up kitten standing up to an intimidating dog. But he would prove that courage before he could ever think of what she offered.

"And you want me to be a true husband to you, then," he said, toying with her.

"Yes," she said confidently.

"And a gentlemanly lover as well," he continued, pretending to scratch one of his ears.

"Well, yes," she said, slightly less confident this time, her face blushing.

"You want me to make love to you!" he sneered grimly, his tone suddenly fierce. With one smooth motion, he tore off his mask, exposing all of his raw, contorted face, still red and bleeding from his rage the night before.

Unprepared for his sudden brutality, she couldn't help but gasp and draw away. His angry eyes missed none of this.

"Yes," he said, his voice still harsh and he reapplied his mask smoothly. "You are afraid of me, and so an innocent angel _should_ be frightened by a monster from Hell."

She started to protest, but he didn't allow her to speak.

"If I ever managed to seduce you, Christine," he continued relentlessly, "you would hate me in the morning, and hate yourself for the rest of your life for enduring me willingly. I am an abomination, and I taint anything I associate with! I have already married you—a sin worthy of death, if I speak truthfully—but my love, if I expressed it, would only destroy you."

"You overestimate yourself," she choked out bravely, frightened by his sudden descent into this frenzy of anger.

"Do I?" he returned derisively. "You can't even look at my bare face without flinching away from me in fear. How on earth do you think you could endure me touching you that way?"

"You don't always have to be so frightening," she accused, angry that he had tried to scare her off.

"No, Christine," he said, his voice softening, "I am a monster, and none of my gentle masks can change what's underneath. I will never make love to you, as much as I want to, as much as I crave you. It would be easiest if you accepted that now."

She watched unhappily as he stood, left the organ, and walked out the door.


	4. Chapter 4: Nightmare

Hi guys, thanks for the continued support, follows, favorites, and reviews. This chapter includes my own interpretation of a modern reception of medieval Sufi love poetry by C. Dean. Sufi poetry is gorgeous. Go find and read more if you like it!

Chapter 4: Nightmare

She couldn't sleep that night. The rest of that day had passed in a troubled silence that pervaded even her fitful dozing dreams.

She finally rose in frustration, and lit one of the lamps in her room, carrying it out into the shadowy main corridor along with a large fluffy fur from the bed. She counted the doors on her left until she found the one she sought—the small chamber Erik had shown her earlier that was covered from floor to ceiling with books of every description.

She didn't feel like reading, but she found the prospect of trying to go back to sleep even less appealing. She pulled a leather-bound book off a shelf carelessly, not even looking at the title, and curled up with the soft pelt in the dark wing-backed chair next to the lamp.

Opening the book, she had to hold it inches away from the lamp in order to realize that her eyes weren't failing her in the dim, wavering light. The book was printed neatly, but not in any script she had ever seen. Instead of tall, blocky Roman letters, the text was comprised of graceful lines and curves as if written by a swirling desert wind. She squinted at the shapes curiously in the darkness, futilely trying to force meaning from them.

She finally closed the book resignedly. Little, it seemed, would be easily readable for her in this strange house underground—its books, its passages, its darkness, and least of all its master. A small, frustrated sigh escaped her lips.

In the darkness, her sigh was echoed by the softest cry.

She sat for a moment in the dark, not sure if she she had really heard anything at all. Finally, as she had almost risen to try her luck with a different book, she heard the sound again. She picked up the lamp and stepped into the hall. The sound came again from even further down the still, dark corridor.

She quietly followed the noise, suddenly very aware of the bareness of her feet on the frigid flagstones—the cold made her walk even faster.

As her pace quickened, so did the soft whimpers she followed, until she found their source— a bare, dark cell completely devoid of light or furniture. On a broad, rocky ledge in one corner of the room, she saw Erik curled up like a child against the wall, his back to the room.

There were no blankets or pillows around him, and his clothes hadn't changed since she had seen him earlier in the day— he had only removed his coat, vest, and shoes, which now lay on the floor at his feet, crowned with his sepulchral mask.

His shoulders shook as he gasped and whimpered, and his bare feet seemed curled in on themselves against the chilling stone. She felt instantly ill-at-ease, as if she had stumbled upon something private and shameful, but she couldn't leave him in that state.

She raised the lamp a little, casting its wavering light slightly deeper into the shadows of the room. She called his name softly, but he didn't seem to hear her.

Finally, she approached his shuddering form, knelt on the ledge beside him and touched his shoulders softly. He immediately stilled, and his tormented breaths evened.

"What—" he started dazedly, rising to sit. She put her arm around his shoulders gently, laying the lamp down beside them.

"I think you were having a nightmare, Erik," she whispered, reaching up to wipe a shimmering tear off his face. He seemed suddenly to realize the absence of his mask; he immediately turned his face away from her, into shadow. "What were you dreaming about?" she pressed.

"I can't remember it," he said quickly.

"Well, why did you fall asleep here with no blankets or fire? You must be freezing!"

His purposeful self-neglect made her feel motherly and cross. Her hands patted down his exposed hands and face, which felt like ice against her already chilled fingers.

"I'm used to it," he replied dismissively, though he let her continue her examination. "It's not that bad, honestly—"

"Would you still think that if you had caught me sleeping here?" she interrupted testily, pulling around him the warm fur she had brought from the library. "And _what_ on _earth_ did you do to your feet?!" She gasped at the pattern of slashes across his soles—they looked as if he had walked over razor-sharp shards of glass.

He said nothing, pulling the fur self-consciously over his bare feet.

"Well, I'm going to bandage those properly in the morning, and you aren't going to sleep here anymore," she tutted, finally. "If you can't abide sleeping in a bed with me like a sensible person, the stone floor in my room is at least as soft and warm as it is here."

"What do you have here?" he asked distractedly, reaching for something. She suddenly realized that she had inadvertently brought the strange book along with her as she had been searching for him. Erik picked up the book and flipped through it interestedly.

"I couldn't sleep, so I was looking in the library for something to read," she explained.

"And you read Farsi…?" he asked incredulously.

"No, of course not. I was going to choose something else when I heard you and came looking for you. I must have brought it with me absentmindedly."

He nodded slightly in understanding, still perusing the dusty pages, his face still obscured in shadow.

"What you said—Farsi? It's a language?" she asked quietly, "Where is it spoken?"

He smiled at her charming ignorance. "In Persia, my little fjordling—somewhere far indeed from your experience."

"But you can read it?"

"Yes."

"Well, what is this book?" she asked expectantly, "What does it say?"

"Hm," his face curved into an amused expression as he thumbed further through the book, "I think you've selected a work of rather shockingly impassioned love poetry, my dear."

"Oh," she blushed, but still continued undismayed. "Well, is there any you could read to me?"

His demeanor clouded immediately, and she started to rescind her request awkwardly.

"No," he interrupted, smoothing his expression into gentler smile. "I'm sure there's something here suitable for you to hear."

He flipped through a few more pages, finally settling on still more mysterious swirling script.

"I am the moth," he began, translating slowly, a little haltingly, "that is burned—in the flame of your love."

He swallowed hard, but continued.

"I am the candle that consumes its heart in the flame of its love for you.

I am a bird that flies home to nest in your heart.

My love for you makes my heart into a priest for your adoration.

Oh beloved! Your smile could give life to dust,

Your breath could heal all the sorrows of all the worlds— it causes the gates of the Eternal Garden to fall open.

Oh, at one kiss from those ripe lips the dead would rise— all fainting, despairing souls would from your tender kiss be revived… Oh beloved, beloved…"

He had cast a spell with his tender voice. To Christine, the words no longer seemed like the exotic paean of some long-dead Persian poet to his lost love. Erik had made them his own, to his own love.

She bent forward and kissed him softly on his naked cheek, and he shuddered and gasped.

"You torture me," he whispered, his voice cracking. With his cold hands he hid his face from her kind eyes.

"Not half so much as you torture yourself, Erik," she said, rising from the stone plinth, "Come."

She made sure he put his stockings back on over his injured feet, then led him carefully back to her room.

"You're going to spend the night here from now on," she announced when they arrived. "I won't let you sleep alone any more."

"Christine…" he began argumentatively, but she interrupted him.

"We can return to your chambers if you prefer," she offered crisply, knowing he would never allow her to pass a night so uncomfortably. He sighed at her persistence.

With difficulty she pulled a huge, heavy buffalo skin from the foot of the bed and spread it on the floor in front of the warm, smoldering brazier. The soft pelt's substantial loft served as no mean substitute for a real mattress.

"Do you not have a nightshirt?" she inquired.

"No, it's not necessary. I—"

"Well, you won't wear those trousers into bed like a barbarian," she interrupted, handing him one of the thick Turkish robes from the bathroom. "You can wear this if you're uncomfortable removing them around me."

He caught her hand as she bustled past him.

"Why are you doing this, Christine?" he asked gently, his voice patient.

"You're _not_ a monster or an animal," she insisted firmly, as if someone had just said otherwise. "I won't let anyone treat you like one, not even you."

He couldn't resist the charm of her poorly-disguised kindness. He kissed her shyly, ever so lightly on her adorably stormy forehead, and her expression softened.

"I'm your wife now, Erik. If you want to limit what that means, I won't argue with you—for now, at least. But I _will_ take care of you. I won't let you be alone anymore."

He sighed in ecstasy as she pulled him into a gentle embrace, her arms warm around his chest as she burrowed her sweet head into his neck. He wrapped her in his own arms and worshipfully kissed her forehead and her soft curls, and then he couldn't stop himself from kissing her forehead again.

To his perpetual surprise, she didn't flee from him, or even release her hold on him for a long while, until his shoulder grew damp from her breath. He didn't care. He could have stood there in her arms forever.

Finally, she reluctantly let him go. "I'm going to fall asleep on my feet," she said apologetically.

_I would hold you up all night, my dearest love, _his mind answered her. But he scooped her up, tucked her into the soft bedcovers, and blew out the lamp.

"Make sure you have a blanket down there too, Erik," her sleepy voice called softly, but sternly in the darkness. He smiled and pulled a redundant silk coverlet off of the foot of her bed. It smelled like her, he noticed with relish.

That night, he slept better than any night he could remember, wrapped in warmth and soft fur, and his love so near he could hear her breath.


	5. Chapter 5: Sacrifice

Thanks for the continued support, guys! Flashback time again!

**Chapter 5: Sacrifice**

When he awoke, she was still sleeping. He could see her clearly in the light of the smoldering

furnace, though the room was quite dark. He watched her silently for a long time—her breath softly passing through her barely parted lips, making her chest rise and fall. He could hardly breathe at the thought of having passed a night beside her. He basked in the glow of such closeness.

After a while, he quietly rose, dressed, and gingerly went about lighting the lamps of her room. As the light flared, she sleepily stirred. He knelt at her bedside, and waited quietly for her to awaken.

"Erik," she finally spoke, her voice gravelly from sleep.

"Good morning, my love."

She smiled as his devotion colored his gentle voice. "Did you sleep better here?" she asked, touching his masked cheek.

"Everything in my life is better with you nearby," he said, catching her palm and kissing it lightly.

She sat up and yawned, stretching luxuriantly. She peered blearily around the room for a moment before her gaze halted with a gasp.

"Erik, your feet!"

He looked down and realized that his feet had been oozing blood as he had knelt, waiting for her. With a sigh, he leaned back awkwardly to lay hold of the wash basin towel hanging nearby to wipe at the blood now trickling down the length of his foot.

"I told you I'd bandage it," she started, rising quickly, "but looking at that, you might actually need stitches. How on earth did you do that to yourself?"

Not wanting to answer anyway, he was completely distracted by how her silk gown swirled around her otherwise naked body.

No. _No! _he shrieked at himself. His mouth watered for her, and it disgusted him. _She is not for you_, he reminded himself firmly.

She still bustled about, gathering clean rags, silk floss and a needle, and he physically shook himself to rid his mind of the unwanted thoughts.

As she knelt to examine his foot, they both stopped for a moment, remembering. It had scarcely been two weeks since they had been in the exact same position, but it seemed like years—long ago, far away, in a magical house beside a lake underground...

_That night had dragged on. He obviously wasn't going to get back at a reasonable hour, so she finally moved to blow out the lamp. Just then, a clumsy shuffle sounded just outside the door. She started when the doorknob turned._

_He staggered in clutching his side and grimacing, blood seeping out from between his fingers._

"_What happened?!" she cried._

_He tottered weakly. She guided him to the bed, shoving the covers back and laying him down on the sheets. Pulling his bloody hand away with a gasp, she could see immediately why he staggered to her door in the middle of the night. There was a deep gash in his right side, about as wide and long as his hand. The flesh was torn viciously in a straight line, as if a bullet had grazed his side, and the smooth, pale red surface of one of his ribs showed through on one side. The sheet already was stained by a swath of blood almost half a meter wide._

_Stupid men and their stupid, possessive honor. Raoul had something to do with this, she was sure, but now was not the time for interrogations._

_She helped him out of his shirt, which she silently bundled up and held on the wound, her hands shaking, instructing him to hold it there until she could get something clean. Her frightened face almost matched the skin of his desanguinated chest in its very pale, almost gray cast. He didn't make a sound apart from his quick breaths._

_She rushed to the kitchen to find clean towels and to prod the fire in the stove, pushing a needle into a spool of thread and tossing it into the teapot with water to boil. _Are there even any clean edges of skin left to sew together? _she wondered._

_When she returned to the bedroom she replaced the soiled shirt bandage with a fresh towel. He was barely conscious, but he had managed to turn so that his body weight was keeping pressure on the wound. She rolled him back over gently, and blood began to ooze from his side again. He stirred a little and groaned._

"_Christine."_

"_Erik, what happened to you?" she asked, still shaking a little as she worked._

"_It doesn't matter," he groaned dismissively. "Has it stopped bleeding?"_

"_Not completely, but it's slowing. Can you stay awake?"_

"_I'll try. Sing something to me."_

"_I can't. You are bleeding to death in front of me."_

"_Sing me a requiem, then." _

_She ignored him. "Do you have a cutting needle? My sewing needle will probably make it worse."_

"_Well, aren't you the battlefield medic?" he smiled painfully. "Not one that you could find quickly. You don't need to be afraid of hurting me. 'It's just a scratch,' as they say."_

_His ability to keep up a conversation was reassuring to her. Once the bleeding was contained, she tore another towel into strips and tied them around his ribs before going back to retrieve the needle and thread._

_She grimaced more than he did as she gingerly stitched him up. The wound was quite clean, but the size of it was concerning. She ran to fetch some brandy to rinse her work. It was the only time he winced through the entire ordeal. She couldn't help noticing how the graceful curves of the muscles winding through his torso and arms flexed as he hissed, stung by the alcohol. _He must be very strong_, she thought._

"_Can you move?" she asked him she had bound him up tightly._

"_Of course I can," he replied, weakly attempting bravado. "Sleeping in a puddle of gore doesn't really appeal to me at the moment."_

_She offered a little of the brandy in a glass to help him revive, and walked him to the couch in the drawing room and laid a fresh shirt at his feet. He ignored it._

"_Don't tell me your modesty is offended, Christine. You'd be taking it off again to change the bandage soon enough anyway. Where are you going to sleep with your mattress ruined?"_

"_Out here on the floor, I suppose."_

"_No, you won't; I'll go sleep in my room. Sleep here."_

_She shuddered, remembering the coffin. "You'll do no such thing. It's almost morning anyway. Stay there and don't argue with me."_

_He smiled at her spirit, especially displayed in his own interest this way. It made him feel warm and wanted. It was almost as if he were a real person, and they were a real couple, with a man who protected, and a woman who cared for him. He basked in the illusion._

_She went back into her room to pick up the bloody rags and put them in the kitchen tub to soak. The mattress had a large dark stain over much of it. She sighed, dragging it off the frame and into the drawing room where she could keep an eye on Erik while she worked. Sitting on the floor in front of him and resting her back against the front of the couch, she cut the stained muslin away, pulling out the soiled feathers. Resignedly, she fluffed the rest of them up, patched the hole and tacked it, making it almost as good as new. She felt his eyes on her throughout the process._

"_How can you stay awake?" she asked. "You've lost a lot of blood." _

"_I've had worse. I can't have bled more than a pint."_

"_It's also four in the morning," she reminded him._

"_So it is," he replied dismissively. "Tell me something, Christine. If I had bled to death there, on your bed, what would you have done?"_

"_I'm sure I don't know. It's a good thing you didn't."_

"_What I mean is, would you have gone back to the viscount, realizing as you surely do that it was his bullet that nearly found its mark tonight?"_

"_Why did you confront him? He isn't your concern."_

"_Your honor is my concern."_

"_He's never done anything—"_

"_Well, we won't quarrel about that today," he interrupted. "Your happiness, then."_

"_I'm very capable of judging what makes me happy, Erik."_

"_Does being here make you happy?" he asked quietly. _

"_Not especially. The floor is cold and hard, I'm sleepy, and I've just become better acquainted with the anatomy of your ribcage than I had ever intended to be."_

"_You know what I mean."_

_She sighed, trying to think of something to say._

_His cool hand, which had been resting on the seat near her head now softly reached up and touched her cheek._

"_Do you hate me very much for fighting for you, Christine? You think I'm a horrible monster?"_

"_No," she said, and tears suddenly overwhelmed her before she could continue. She held her breath to stifle an inexplicable sob._

_He wiped the tears away with a cold hand and sad eyes._

"_Thank you," he had finally whispered._

"That stupid boy…" he whispered now, resurfacing from the memory as she finished her attentions to his wounds. "Born with a silver spoon clasped firmly between his simpering lips, he thinks everything is his by right."

"Don't be ungracious," she chided softly. "You won that battle, ultimately."

"Did I?"

Her brow furrowed sadly. She slowly rose, grasping his hand, and she softly pulled him into bed beside her, settling back onto the soft pillows and tucking his head into the crook of her neck and shoulder. Her arms gently enfolded him in a soft embrace.

He could hardly breathe.

Nothing could have prepared him for the feel of this—the soft, steady beat of her heart in his ears, the rich, sweet smell of her, the taste of her breath as it wafted past his tongue.

Beyond any of this, however, was the warmth of her body beside him, around him, seeping into him as he gently, audaciously enclosed her waist with his arm. He couldn't help returning her embrace, but he dared nothing else. This was a sweet, excruciating torment he deserved—he would endure the blaze she kindled in his mind and body, and the more intense it was, the more his conscience was soothed.

_Yes_, it told him, _feel this tortuous want, and know that it will burn you forever, and you will never act to sooth it. She will never be yours._

"Of course you won," she whispered gently to his ear, as if in argument with his unspoken thoughts. "I care for him, but I wanted to stay with _you_."

_So_ gently, she pulled off his mask and pressed her lips to his forehead, and tears heated by his consuming need for her fell from his eyes onto her white shoulder.

He watched them glimmer as they trailed down her white breast, and the fire within him flaring to an inferno of desire.

Yet, he simply closed his eyes, denying every atom of himself as they each clamored for every kindred atom of her.

He let his heart immolate itself, a sacrifice to its cherished goddess.


End file.
